Viewpoint Unearned privilege and unearned pain
BY EILEEN REILLY
I had barely recovered from the
journey home from the U.N. World Conference Against Racism in Durban, South
Africa, when four acts of terrorism shook the foundations of our country. As I
struggled to absorb these harsh realities, I searched for an understanding of
what had happened, why it had happened and how we were to respond.
This search has led me to a new appreciation of the World
Conference Against Racism, Racial Discrimination, Xenophobia and Related Acts
of Intolerance and of why, despite all the negative press, it is important that
we convene events like the conference. I also came to a new understanding of
the underlying values that prompted so many of us to participate in this event
and a deeper appreciation of the lessons learned in Durban.
Whether listening to a panel of children of Roma, or Gypsy,
descent describe their unfair treatment in a school system that most often
classified them as retarded, or a South African 15-year-old girl
unjustly accused of shoplifting, it became clear that the unearned
pain suffered by children around the world is so often a result of
centuries of systemic racism. In speaking about these long-term effects of
racism, a panelist in Durban noted that two of the hardest things to understand
or explain are unearned privilege and unearned pain.
And isnt that exactly what we are grappling with in the
light of the terrorist attacks? How will we come to terms with the unearned
pain of the deceased and their grieving families and the unearned privilege of
survivors? As we tell and retell the stories of Sept. 11, we struggle to
comprehend the meaning of the events. I hope we reject the explanation that
these events were a warning call or, worse, a punishment from God.
But how do we understand the story of the policeman who was in the
World Trade Center only to finalize the details of his retirement and lost his
life on his last day of work? Or the broker who lost his life on his first day
of work? What sense do we make of a life saved because a father chose to take
his daughter to kindergarten and arrived late only to find that all his
colleagues had been killed? Or the life saved by the man who took a
later-than-usual train to New York City because his two-week-old baby had kept
him awake a good part of the previous night? These stories of unearned
privilege and unearned pain challenge the very foundations of our belief. We
cannot ignore them.
Each day of the conference in Durban, a special forum titled
Voices was held, giving participants opportunities to hear the voices of
victims of discrimination from around the world. They shared not only the
horror of their discrimination and, in some cases, torture, but also their
commitment to assist others with similar experiences or to work to end such
discrimination and torture. These voices touched our minds and
hearts and gave meaning to the somewhat tedious process of negotiating
agreements around very contentious issues.
Since Sept. 11, so much of our attention has been focused on the
individual stories of bravery and courage, of love and loss, of tragedy and
death, of seemingly miraculous survival and determination to go on. We need to
hear these voices. We need to tell these stories. It is through the
power of story that the events can seep into our minds and hearts and evoke the
kind of generous responses we have seen.
Another lesson learned in Durban is that the best hope for an end
to xenophobia is solidarity. When the government of India protested that the
issue of the dalit, or low-caste Untouchables, ought not to
be on the agenda since it was an internal matter to their country, the people
of South Africa protested. Why? Because now, many years after the fact, they
are able to see clearly that without external pressure, South Africa never
would have rid itself of apartheid.
Not only did they rid themselves of apartheid, but the people of
South Africa were also able to stand tall and proudly host a world conference
against racism, something that would have been unimaginable 15 year ago. Thabo
Mbeki, the president of South Africa, thanked those assembled because
they did not stand aside when crimes against humanity were raging in
South Africa.
Since Sept. 11 we have seen a rise in cases of overt xenophobia in
our own country. A new racial profiling is occurring. A woman from the Middle
East recently shared how ashamed she was to hear herself saying, but
Im not Muslim, as if discriminating against her would be tolerable
if she were a Muslim. A black woman shared the same kind of feeling when she
said to her husband, after seeing the police stop and question people who
appeared to be Middle Eastern, Thank God, were black.
We have also seen creative responses to this xenophobia. In
Chicago there were reports of area residents forming a human chain around a
mosque so that the Friday prayer of its members could continue uninterrupted.
Many who never heard of Sikhs before Sept. 11 can now explain the origin of
their religious beliefs and how they differ from Muslims, thanks to the
educational efforts that have been undertaken to counter some of the
xenophobia.
At the opening ceremony for the Conference in Durban, Mary
Robinson, the U.N. High Commissioner for Human Rights, challenged us with these
words: This is no time to be small-minded, this conference calls for a
generosity of spirit. And it did. The days were long, security was tight
and negotiations seemed endless, and sometimes they failed. But the
nongovernmental organizations worked until 4 a.m., and the government officials
stayed an extra day to finish their task.
And now, once again, our generosity of spirit is challenged. As in
Durban, we need to be constantly reaching across boundaries of ethnicity, race
and language to build consensus. We need to read, reflect, pray and grapple
with the issues of the day. Our first reactions to the events of the Sept. 11
attacks cannot be our final reactions.
A black woman in Durban told a predominately white audience that
our efforts must move beyond learning black history and leaving our own lives
unexamined. This was a call to examine our unearned privilege. Yes,
we must come to know the unearned pain of black Americans by
learning about their history and their present experience. But we must also
acknowledge that our status as white Americans is not unrelated.
This same concept applies to our reactions to the violence and
terrorism of the last month. We seek to understand its roots and its causes.
But we must also examine our own lives and the life of our country to root out
covert forms of violence and terrorism.
When he arrived in Durban, former Anglican Archbishop Desmond Tutu
was as exuberant as ever. Although he did not have an official role to play, it
was most fitting that he be present at a time when South Africa was so proud to
host the nations of the world in the new South Africa. At a press
conference, Tutu noted that he is often accused of being a utopian. To this,
his response is simple: I am a utopian. God is a utopian, so I am in good
company. If this is the view of a man who saw his people through times of
unbearable pain and suffering, then perhaps we, too, are called to join in that
good company as we struggle to imagine a future after Sept. 11,
2001.
Sister of Notre Dame Eileen Reilly coordinates Justice, Peace
and Integrity of Creation efforts for the Wilton, Conn., province of her
congregation. She attended the World Conference Against Racism as one of the
three nongovernmental organization representatives for her order.
National Catholic Reporter, November 9,
2001
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